The child cut short the words of thankfulness that rose to Mr. Standish's lips.
"Go," she said imperatively, taking him by the hand and leading him to the door; "pay the man and get him off."
A few minutes later, with great glee, Meg watched the departure of the bailiff; she thought with pleasure as he made his way downstairs that he seemed a little stiff, as if he had got rheumatism. After the hall door had slammed behind the representative of the law she stood hesitating. Soon her diffident feet slowly brought her to Mr. Standish's threshold. She pushed the door softly open. He was sitting by the table, his face covered with his hands. He looked up as she entered.
"He's gone," said Meg, nodding. "Aren't you glad?"
"You have done me a great service, Meg. How can I thank you for it?" said the young man, rising and taking the child's two hands in his.
"Don't thank me—not at all," said Meg with ardor, looking up into his face. "Just promise never to lend your money again—never."
"No—never again!" replied Mr. Standish, shaking his head. He led the child in and sat down, still keeping her hand in his. "How did you guess that man was a bailiff?"
"Oh," said Meg, with the scornful brevity of wide experience in her voice, "I knew him by his sleeky ways. I've watched them at their dodges. They're up to almost anything."
Mr. Standish laughed out loud; but the laugh suddenly fell as he thought of all that knowledge implied. He said gently, after a pause: